


when he walks in, i am loved

by cool lesbian (falloutblink182)



Series: ineffable oneshots [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), anathema and crowley are bros, and someone else is like 'no dumbass she just loves you', because fuck you thats why, crowley uses they them pronouns, for whatever reason, in every way, that reflect the authors own tea opinions, the one thats like 'my mum thought i was asleep n she stroked my cheek is she planning to kill me', this is inspired by that 4chan post, tw for potentially controversial tea opinions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-07-04 20:16:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutblink182/pseuds/cool%20lesbian
Summary: This is just pure fluff. I can't get these two idiots out of mind.Title is from "Me and My Husband" by Mitski because I'm gay.





	when he walks in, i am loved

Somewhere in the South Downs, there is a cottage that looks as though it has been pulled right from the pages of a Beatrix Potter book, surrounded in a wide range of colourful flowers and towering plants. Chickens roam the garden freely and a cat can occasionally be found to be stretching lazily in the front porch, and although the two inhabitants of the cottage would both deny ownership of said feline, they are both guilty of giving the cat food and attention behind the others back.

The inhabitants of this cottage are two entities who can be described in many ways – ethereal, supernatural, occult, celestial, mythical. Whatever way one chooses to describe the owners of the cottage is irrelevant – what _is_ relevant is that after moving in, the cottage had several more rooms than it did so originally, despite not growing in size whatsoever.

One of these new rooms is a library. Aziraphale, one half of the pair of ethereal/supernatural/occult/what-have-you entities, has quite the collection of old and rare books, ranging from ancient Bibles, to annotated copies of Shakespeare’s plays, to signed copies of the works of great philosophers. Presently we find him in this library, surrounded by his beloved collection and utterly content as he leans back in his seat, flipping through the worn pages of one of his favourite novels. The room is silent, but for the sounds of pages rustling and his soft blissful sighs he makes when he reads a line he particularly enjoys. He picks up his mug to take a sip of tea and frowns when he finds it empty.

Being of a not strictly human nature, Aziraphale could, of course, bend reality and the laws of science to his will and simply use his abilities to refill his tea without moving a muscle. However, Aziraphale has been drinking tea since the 1660’s and despite not being an expert he does have a particularly strong code when it comes to how tea should be prepared and enjoyed. Over 300 years of trial and error in regards to tea has led him to the conclusion that:

  1. Tea is is enjoyed best with two sugars and a splash (and absolutely _no more than a splash_ ) of milk.
  2. The absolute best dunking biscuit is a chocolate Hobnob.
  3. Tea always tastes better when made the human way.



So, with point C in mind, Aziraphale gently marks his place in his book and gets up with his empty cup. He goes to head towards the kitchen, but stops before he even leaves the room.

In the library, there is a sofa. Sometimes this sofa is a giant, plush tartan abomination, covered with mismatched cushions. Sometimes the sofa is sleek and stylish and modern, made with white leather. Sometimes it is floral. Sometimes it is brown. Sometimes it has blankets, and sometimes it doesn’t. What matters most, though, is that no matter what it looks like, the sofa is always there. And, more often than not, the sofa is occupied by the other occult being that occupies the cottage.

Anthony J Crowley is currently sprawled across the sofa (which is, as of right now, a deep burgundy colour and made from a soft fabric). Their long limbs are thrown about in every which way, but they are comfortable. Aziraphale feels a rush of fondness as he looks over Crowley’s face – their eyes are closed and their dark eyelashes stand out against their pale skin, strands of their hair flutter down from where it escaped the loose bun, and their breathing is slow and steady.

They aren’t actually asleep. They’re getting there, but they haven't quite reached that point yet.

Aziraphale does not know this.

He crouches down next to what he assumes is Crowley’s sleeping form, and gently brushes the stray red hair behind their ear. He stays there for a moment, tenderly stroking Crowley’s cheek with his knuckle with a barely-there touch. Then he sighs, and he stands, and he goes to the kitchen to get his tea.

As soon as they are sure that Aziraphale is out the door, Crowley’s eyes snap open. If they were close to sleep before, they definitely aren’t now – Crowley feels wide awake as they leap off the couch and frantically grab their phone from where it sits on the coffee table opposite. They unlock it and send out a panicked text to one Anathema Device.

**crowley: sos angel thought i was sleeping he stroked my cheek n hair for like a full minute and then left wtf**

**crowley: is he planning 2 kill me what does this mean h e l p**

They wait an agonising 38 seconds before Anathema replies.

**anathema: no you idiot he just loves you**

**anathema: dummy :p**

Oh, Crowley thinks.

_Oh._

That’s…

_Oh._

If anybody asks, Crowley absolutely _does not_ smile like a dolt at their phone for an unreasonable amount of time, and they absolutely _do not_ feel a warm feeling rush through their veins, and they absolutely one hundred percent _do not_ subconsciously lift their fingertips and let them linger over where Aziraphale had traced a trail on their face.

They’re still absolutely not grinning at their phone when Aziraphale re-enters the library, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other.

“Oh, I thought you were sleeping, my dear, otherwise I would have brought you a drink too,” he says as he places the biscuits on the table. Crowley hums some sort of answer, and Aziraphale smiles.

“What’s got you so intrigued? Has Adam sent you another amusing mee-mee?” He goes to look over Crowley’s shoulder at the phone screen, and Crowley quickly shoves it ungracefully in the back pocket of their jeans.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing at all,” Crowley stammers out. Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying!” Crowley lies, like a liar.

“Hmmph,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley sighs. “It really is nothing, Angel, I promise. Everything is fine – well, actually, everything is more than fine. Everything is beautiful. Spectacular. Wonderful. Marvellous. Magnificent. Excellent.” Aziraphale shuts them up with a kiss, which Crowley happily sinks into. They kiss softly, tenderly, slowly, because they have all the time in the world to love each other in all the ways they want to. And neither of them can believe how lucky they are to be alive in this moment with each other, and how lucky they are to love and be loved by each other.

They could kiss for eternity, but then a rare happening occurs – Crowley has a thought.

“Hang on – did you call memes _mee-mees?”_

**Author's Note:**

> my google search history be like "what are sofas made of" "when did tea come 2 england" "mitski lyrics about LONGING"


End file.
